


Gunpoint

by Morri_gan



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, OC death, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29126427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morri_gan/pseuds/Morri_gan
Summary: Drift always thought that the choice to go back on his promise to forsake guns would be a difficult one to make. It wasn’t. Particularly not when the life of his most important person was on the line.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Ratchet
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137191
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Gunpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the first Fanfic I've written in 7 years, and my first Transformers Fic. I hope you all like it!

When Drift left New Crystal City, determined to become a mech that Wing could be proud of, he knew that guns would be out of the equation. This had nothing to do with the teachings of the Circle of Light, though he is sure that’s what everyone thought. 

As much as the Circle’s teachings helped reform him, made him see all the wrong he had done and how he could be better, it didn’t change everything about him. He still did not trust others, not if they hadn’t earned it. Still had trouble opening up to the few who had. He was still the addict, still craved. Whether it was the syk, a place to belong or a thing to believe in. Still a fanatic, a diehard for that which he thought was right.

And Drift still had a natural, undeniable talent for death. For violence. 

He was good at fighting and he was good at killing. Though he has come to regret the blood on his hands, there will always be a part of him that relished in the hunt, the high of a hard fight and a clean kill. 

He gave up his guns because it made killing too easy. And if killing was too easy then he would never try to think of other options, other solutions. The instinct honed from nearly 4 millennia of war would always have him shoot first, question whether he should have later. That would make him the same monster, just under a different name. He wanted to be better than that. 

So he spent the next 300 years using a crutch in battle. That’s not to say that he didn’t make himself just as deadly with his swords, but he was deadly in a different way. He couldn’t take out a room full of people in less than a minute, all without even moving from the doorway for starters. 

Choosing to retire his guns had the added bonus of helping his fellow Autobots forget that Drift and Deadlock were, at the end of the day, one in the same. This was particularly helpful when he became the TIC of the Lost Light. Most of the crew may not like him, but at least they weren’t terrified of him. In fact, most seem to think that the happy hippy Spectralist is all there is to Drift. 

He’s fine with that. Encouraged it even. He quoted scripture and prayer. He rambled about auras and energy. He learned to smile and laugh and joke all while never showing his fangs. He worked hard to make sure no one ever saw Deadlock when they looked at him. 

A part of him wonders if that's all they’ll ever see now, after he’s done what he’s about to do. 

Because right now, their landing party has been ambushed and is heavily outnumbered. Instead of finding a crashed ship at the end of a distress beacon to an uninhabited planetoid, they found slavers, all of the Zi’lynic species. They were known for their two sets of arms that held strength which could put Fort Max to shame, and for their distinct hatred for Cybertronians. 

Who could blame the Zi’lyns though. The Cybertronian war did decimate their planet. Turned a thriving civilization of billions to a few thousand struggling to get by. All because their moons happened to be rich in energon. 

But Drift didn’t care about their rightful anger. Not when they were surrounded by a murderous crowd with guns. Not when Ultra Magnus was failing to calm the situation down. And most importantly, not when the apparent leader of this group had Ratchet tight in her clutches, gun pressed to his helm. 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass! Surrender your weapons, or I’m blowing his fucking head off!” The head Zi’lyn snarled, tightening her hold on Ratchet, making his armor creak. The landing party lowered their weapons, many setting them down to put their hands up. 

Drift felt something at the back of his head and glanced. The slaver had his top set of arms holding a rather large rifle to the swordsmech’s helm, his second set gesturing to the drawn swords. He also had two pistols strapped to his hips. Perfect. 

Drift always thought that the choice to go back on his promise to forsake guns would be a difficult one to make. It wasn’t. A good part of him is even convinced that this is only because the life of his most important person is on the line. It doesn’t matter. If something isn’t done soon they will all be dead, or wishing they were. 

Zi’lyns weren’t known for their mercy towards Cybertronians. 

In the coming seconds Drift looks forward and analyzes, marks who needs to go down first to lower the chance of Autobot casualties. Obviously, the one holding Ratchet. A tricky shot for sure as she had the medic held before her, only half her head peeking from behind. And though Drift’s not far, he isn’t close either. About 8 meters away. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Deadlock had been known for his impeccable aim. 

He also noted that the leader seemed to be focused on Ultra Magnus at the moment, trusting her crew to keep the rest in line. He sent a quick prayer to Primus that it would stay that way, if only for a few more moments. 

There was another slaver, closer to Drift and standing over Whirl who had, fortunately, been knocked out at the initial attack but was starting to rouse. Drift was certain that if the former Wrecker was awake and talking they would already be dead. The copter may not be his favorite, but he wasn’t going to have his death on his hands. So that Zi’lyn would go with the first. 

After that he is hoping for a few seconds of shock before the rest start shooting. A few seconds is all the Autobots need to pick up their weapons, push into the fray or take cover. Drift sends a quick comm as he shifts back, turning his swords down as though to surrender them. 

::Be ready. Move on my mark::

It’s funny. Drift can tell who would have done well in the Decepticon ranks based on who shifts or tenses and who remains still. He is unsurprised to note that Ultra Magnus is among those that tensed. 

::You will stand down. That is an order!::

Drift lowers his arms and starts moving them back, running last minute calculations and routes of movement once he starts. He expands his EM field, paying attention to its ebb and flow, mapping his immediate surroundings. 

Just as his captor's lower arms are going to grab his swords, Drift let’s them fall. The Zi’lyn is momentarily distracted in his instinctive attempt to catch the hilts. It makes him unable to react properly as Drifts hands shoot further back, grabbing at the pistols and ducking just under the rifle at the back of his head. 

“Final fucking warni-” violet blood and cranial matter splatter across the side of Ratchets helm the moment after Drift yanks the pistols from their holsters. He barely registered aiming for the Zi’lyn over Whirl, but he takes notice of the ex-Wreckers loud complaints as a body drops on top of him. At least he’s awake now. 

Just as Drift hoped, the sudden death of their leader had shocked the slavers into a momentary pause. It allowed his fellow Autobots, told in advance to expect something, precious few seconds to get ahead of their enemies. Or, at least that’s what Drift hoped they were doing. What it sounded like. He hadn’t stopped moving to watch. 

Drift felt movement behind him and ducks as low as he can, just making it under the arm that meant to decapitate him with his own sword. Drift raises his arm and shoots, the bullet shattering ribs and tearing through lungs. He doesn’t watch the Zi’lyn fall, already moving on to the next target, looking for Ratchet amongst the fighting mass. 

Adrenaline is tearing through his lines as he dodges, blocks and shoots his way into the fight. As soon as he spies the medic, Drift keeps an eye on him, tries to get closer. The few who get in Ratchet’s blind spot find a bullet in their brain or throat or spine. In the minutes that followed those first two shots, he couldn’t tell you how many times he pulled the trigger. 

Suddenly someone leapt on top of him, clawing at playing and ripping at armor. Drift abandoned the gun in his right hand, freeing it and allowing him to reach back and dig his claws in. With a hard tug, he threw his body forward and slammed his attacker to the ground. 

The Zi’lyn recovered quick enough to try and crawl away, terror on a young face as Drift straightened and aimed. 

“Drift, wait!” 

BANG!

A splatter of violet paints the grey dirt and Drift turns to find Ratchet a short distance away. The medic still has gore on his face, optics wide. His hands were held up as he walked towards Drift, field filled with concern. And under that concern there was a touch of fear. That got his attention quicker than anything else could have. 

“Hey,” Ratchet says, “we’re all safe now. The fights over okay?”

Now that he mentions it, Drift notices an eerie silence. He looks out and sees that those that aren’t dead, have been disarmed and contained by the landing party. He also sees that everyone is staring. Staring at him. In Shock and confusion and some even in downright horror. Fear of him. 

It makes him wonder just how many of the Zi’lyn corpses were his doing alone. Makes him wonder what he looked like as he did his best to protect his subordinates. To protect Ratchet. 

“What the frag was that?” Someone questioned to no one in particular. 

“That, my shaking friend, was Deadlock,” Whirl sounded positively giddy. 

Oh. Right. That’s what he looked like. 

“I always wondered if ya still had it in you! That was fragging awesom-“

“Enough!” Ultra Magnus shouts and suddenly the crew’s attention is on their SIC as he spouts out orders. Leaving Drift alone amongst the dead. 

“Drift,” no, wait. Not alone. Ratchet is still here. Closer now than he was before, one hand reaching to him, palm up. “How about you hand me that pistol now.”

Drift vents, looks back to the hand still holding the gun, still aimed at his last kill. He looks at the Zi’lyn, only now noticing their youth. They were probably just over the age of maturity. A part of him wonders if this was their first raid. If any others he killed today were just as young. It shouldn’t matter, they were the ones threatening his people. It still does. 

Drifts hands start to shake. His vents are hitched, uneven. He can’t calm his raging thoughts. Can’t quiet Deadlock’s snarls that this was inevitable. That he would slip up and his comrades, his friends, would learn to fear him again.

A warm hand wrapping around his brought him back to the present once more. Drift jolted, but remained as he was, focusing on Ratchet as he gently pried the pistol from his hand. He let him take it. Watched as it was carefully set aside, as the medic brought his full attention to Drift’s face and frame, optic ridges furrowing. 

“Primus kid,” Ratchet mutters as he slowly takes in the injuries that Drift is only now starting to feel, “Is that- Did you get shot in the leg? How are you still standing.”

The sheer normality of that comment prompted an answer from the swordmech, surprising him even as he said it. “That’s why we have two of them.”

Ratchet let out a huff, shaking his head. “Well if you still have a sense of humor you can’t be that badly off.” the medic moved to the side and wrapped one of Drift’s arms over his shoulders, “Either way, you're going straight to the medibay.”

With that, Ratchet started slowly leading Drift to their shuttle, acting as though nothing strange or jarring may have just occurred. He didn’t know what to say, just slowly followed along, allowing himself to be sat down and taken back to the Lost Light. The ride was tense as the other, more injured, Autobots riding with them kept sending glances his way. He made sure not to look, not to pay attention to their fields. He didn’t want to know what they were feeling.

Barely an hour later and Ratchet had him laid back on a mediberth, grouching over how reckless he was. It was so surreal. Too unbelievable. Suddenly Drift grabbed the medics hand.

“Drift! Don’t do that while I’m-”

“Why are you acting like nothing happened? Aren't… aren’t you afraid of me?”

Ratchet gave him a strange look. “What are you talking about kid?”

“I felt it, the fear in your field, when you came over.. When you made sure I stopped.” Drift glanced away, anxiety radiating off of him.

He heard a heavy sigh and the sound of the privacy curtain being pulled shut. He glanced over as he felt the medic sit on the side of the berth. 

“Drift,” Ratchet started softly, “not only did I see you fight multiple times during the war, I saw your handiwork up close and personal.”

Drift looked down with a shuttering vent, only to have a gentle hand tilt his helm up, Ratchet’s face close and serious. “Even then, I wasn’t scared of you. Angry and disappointed, yes. But never scared.”

Drift is sure that Ratchet thought he was helping. He wasn’t sure if he actually was. Ratchet made a face, lowering his hand. “That didn’t come out like I wanted it to.”

“It’s fine Ratch-”

“No, wait listen,” the medic interrupted, “What I’m trying to say is, no I’m not afraid of you for doing all you could to protect us. I was afraid for you, for how you might feel about yourself after, okay?”

Drift noded, eyes wide.

“And I know you well enough to know you’re worried about how the crew will take this,” Ratchet continued, “don’t be. The ones that can’t see how much you try, how you have changed, don’t matter. In fact, you may have gained some comrades. Whirl seemed particularly excited, and I’m sure Rodimus will only be mad that he didn’t get to see it.” The medic rolled his eyes.

“If they are scared of me, if they despise me, how am I supposed to be their Third in Command?” Drift questioned.

“If anyone gives you slag about this you go to Ultra Magnus, or Rodimus or hell, you come to me” Ratchet said firmly, “You are a different person now, and you deserve your second chance. You got it?”

Drift nodded again, “Um, Okay Ratchet.”

“Good,” Ratchet nodded back, getting up and reaching for his tool again. “Now, no more grabbing at my hands while I'm working on fixing ya, alright kid?”

Drift smiled a bit, relaxing under the medics touch. “You got it Ratchet.”


End file.
